Disclaimer: Still belongs to a bunch of other people.

A/N: Was that cliffhanger horribly evil of me? Survey says yes, although I contend that it made the most sense to end the chapter that way.

Was the nearly six year gap between the last chapter and this update evil? Most certainly, although it was not intentional….I did really mean to post this in 2009. Things got kind of crazy for me for a while. Good things mostly (finishing college, meeting my husband, getting married, buying a house, finishing my Master's degree), but some other not so good things (health stuff). Anyway, I'm not sure where this will go after this chapter. Do I know what happens? Yes. It's just a matter of whether I'll have time to write more. I certainly hope so, but I won't make any promises just yet. I did want to post this, though, because it is well overdue and has been sitting in draft format on my computer for far too long.

Thank you all for your patience and kind words. And now, for the thrilling:

Chapter 16: Seventeen Seconds

There was no movement from behind the flimsy yellow fabric of the curtain. Despair crept up my spine and into the back of my throat—perhaps no one was home after all. But then a shadowy figure moved behind the curtain and my heart pounded hard in my chest as a hand reached up and pushed the curtain aside.

We stared at each other through the glass, George looking understandably surprised to find me standing on his doorstep looking as though I'd swum to his flat. I tried to gage his reaction but found I was rather unable to come to any proper conclusion, surprised as I was that I had arrived at this point, especially without the sense of impending doom I'd expected to accompany it. It was the sort of moment that would have been colored as romantic and dramatic in a Muggle film—as it was, I felt rather stupid with my hair plastered to my face and my jeans pulling at my hips, heavy with water.

He seemed to recover from the initial shock after a moment and dropped his hand from the curtain. I could hear the click of a latch being undone and the turn of a lock over the steady patter of the rain. The door swung open.

My heartbeat kicked up a notch as we stood face to face without glass between us. A dreamy, unreal sort of feeling had persisted when the door had been shut. Now with only air and falling rain between us, it was suddenly intimate and shockingly real. I faltered for a moment before I spoke.

"Hi." I flinched inwardly. That was not the stellar opening statement I'd hoped for. "Er…you're probably wondering why I'm here…"

"That did cross my mind, yes." His expression was unreadable, neither pleased nor angry—just rather benign, perhaps as though he didn't know what to make of my soggy appearance on his doorstep. My hand went to the back of my neck, wiping away the rainwater that was creeping underneath the collar of my shirt.

"Er. Listen. I…er…I've been…I've thought…" I cleared my throat. He quirked an eyebrow expectantly. "I…I was…" I took a deep breath.

"Look, I…I was really stupid." I was surprised by what a relief it was to say this. George's eyebrows rose higher and the corner of his mouth twitched, perhaps in amusement. "Like…monumentally, head-up-my-arse, what-was-I-thinking stupid. And maybe…maybe it's too late for that but…I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't try so…so I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner with me."

It was out there. It had been said. I was relieved.

"Like a date?" he asked. His expression betrayed none of his thoughts, though he seemed to be slightly amused, which I didn't take to be a bad sign.

"You could call it that…if you'd like, I mean…I don't know if you want to…" I took another deep breath. "But…I'd like to. Call it that, I mean. If that makes a difference to you. You can think about it if you'd like, though," I continued, hurriedly. "I mean, I'd understand what with…everything that happened."

That familiar crooked grin stole across his face. It was a relief to see him smile, but equally frustrating because he hadn't answered my question.

"Are you laughing at me?"

His expression grew mischievous. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Well, you haven't answered my question yet." I had a sudden realization as his grin grew broader. "You're doing that on purpose!"

He sighed dramatically, placing a hand to his heart. "No, it's just…complicated."

Frustrating as he was being, I couldn't help but laugh. "Will you have dinner with me or not?"

"That depends. How d'you feel about shepherd's pie?"

"I fail to see how my feelings about shepherd's pie are relevant."

"I've some warming in the oven and I thought I'd fix you a plate if you didn't object."

I arched an eyebrow, slightly unwilling to let him have the last laugh. "Well, I don't know. Did you and Fred make it or is it safe to eat?"

"I'll have you know we made a lovely Yorkshire pudding last night. But Mum sent this over this morning."

"Well…I suppose that would be all right."

"Come in, then."

For the first time in a long time, my stomach gave a happy and thrilled sort of flip. I hesitated for just a moment before stepping across the threshold, my shoes squelching loudly.

"Sorry," I said, dripping rainwater on the floor. I fished in my pocket for my wand.

"You know, the Muggles have this wonderful little thing called an umbrella," he said, shutting the door behind me and locking it. "Dead useful in weather like this."

"Didn't have one with me."

"Then there's the Impervius Charm as well…"

"Don't you have some pie to tend to?"

He grinned and disappeared into the kitchen. I withdrew my wand and shut my eyes, trying to remember the complicated movement. Flick, downward swoop, spiral, left, right, and down. That sounded about right. I raised my wand and muttered "Siccus."

A blast of hot air washed over me, effectively drying the worst of the damage. The toes of my socks and the ends of my hair were still damp, but I decided I could live with it. I made a mental note to practice that spell in my spare time.

I toed off my shoes and stepped into the kitchen where George was peering critically into the oven. It was warm and relatively small space with a creaky hardwood floor and oak cupboards. The counters (or, what I could see of them under the mess of products, cauldrons, and other miscellanea) were pale yellow. There was a small squat oven and stove that looked as though they had been upgraded ten years ago. A cherry table with mismatched chairs was crammed into the one empty corner in the room, stacked high with papers, potions, and several cardboard boxes filled with what looked like Fainting Fancies.

"It's rather small," conceded George, donning an oven mitt and reaching in to take out the pie. "We haven't had time to do much work on it."

"It's very nice." I ignored the way the floor warped near the sink.

"Kitchen's the worst part of the flat. We've been eating in there." He gestured vaguely at what looked like a living room that opened off the kitchen. "You can go sit down in there if you'd like. I'll only be a moment."

I nodded and said "All right," mainly because I wasn't sure what to do and I was beginning to feel rather silly standing in the too-small kitchen and generally being in the way.

The living room was a great improvement on the kitchen. It was much roomier and looked as though it had been newly painted in a cool shade of blue. The furniture was delightfully mismatched as it often is in first flats—antique ivory armchair flanked by sleekly modern end tables, a worn recliner, a squishy monster of a couch covered in fake leather, and a makeshift coffee table made of milk crates. I sat down on the couch, the fake leather creaking underneath me.

The walls were bare, apart from a crooked family photo and a framed photograph that I recognized: seven of us piled on one couch in our pajamas after the Yule Ball. We were all grinning happily—Viv still glowing from her first kiss with Dan. I was sandwiched between George and the arm of the couch, wearing my favorite pajamas and with my hair still in the elegant French twist, laughing at something he'd said. His arm was slung casually over the back of the couch, just barely brushing my shoulders. I couldn't remember if I'd noticed that when the picture had been taken and I found myself wondering if he had noticed or even known back then. It staggered me to think about how much had changed since that night—not just with me, but with the world at large. Cedric Diggoryhad been alive. We didn't know about the rise of You-Know-Who. We were bright-eyed and innocent in an almost alarming way.

I looked away from the photograph. Perhaps these were thoughts best left for another night.

"Beautiful lamp," I said, mainly to distract myself.

"Hideous, isn't it? Fred found it in a secondhand shop."

"I rather like it, actually. It has a certain charm. What do you suppose it's supposed to be?"

"Fred thought it might be a rabbit, but Lee reckons it's a cat of some sort."

"It looks like a dog if you squint at it right. Where is Fred, by the way?"

He emerged from the kitchen then, two plates balanced precariously in one hand, two butterbeers in the other.

"Scouting out a competitor with Lee." He looked critically at the lamp and sighed. "I suppose it doesn't matter—we'll have most of it replaced eventually. Hopefully soon."

"Oh, keep the lamp at least," I said, taking a plate and a butterbeer from him.

"You can have it if you're so keen on it."

"I couldn't accept such a generous gift. Besides, I haven't got a flat to put it in yet." I picked up the fork and stuck it into my portion of pie.

"You will eventually. Are you looking?"

"More or less." I took a bite of my pie. It was delicious. "I haven't really got the funds yet, but I'm looking. For a job, as well—I'm back stocking shelves at Flourish and Blotts again."

"Yeah, I know." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "I saw you the other day."

I very nearly choked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Ministry-issued posters don't make for very good camouflage, love."

Normally, seeing someone you fancy actively avoiding you by hiding behind a government-issued poster would be cause for annoyance. George, of course, is not normal and seemed more amused, as though he'd caught me doodling hearts over his photo or writing "Mrs. George Weasley" in my notebook.

"Er…look, I can I explain—"

He cut me off with a wave of his hand. "I know why you hid behind the poster. What I don't know is how you came to be on my doorstep the very next day, demanding dates, no less."

"That was hardly a demand." I took another mouthful of food using it as an opportunity to gather my thoughts. "Er. Well…I've had several conversations since then…I'm sure you heard about the one I had with your brother. And I…I suppose that helped me sort some things out."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that the whole situation might not have been as complicated as I'd made it out to be."

"Really," he said with a look of mock thoughtfulness. "Novel theory, that."

"So I had to rethink a lot of things," I said, ignoring his comment. "And…it was a lot to think about. And I felt awful but I thought there wasn't anything I could do. And then I saw you yesterday…" I trailed off and poked at my dinner for a moment. "I just…I just really realized how much I regretted everything. I had a terrible time at work…I gave out wrong change…charged a woman three times for one book…lost order forms…all because I felt so awful. Margaret and Kathleen asked what was upsetting me and I told them and they talked some sense into me. And then I ended my shift early and turned up here."

I glanced up to find him smiling at me. "I'm glad you did."

I felt my cheeks redden. "Me too." I looked back at my plate. I had a feeling that this could be a prelude to a kiss and I didn't want to go there just yet. We still had some things to talk about. I speared a carrot with my fork. "Now can I ask you some things?"

"Go ahead."

"You fancied me for a while."

"Yeah." I could he was grinning. "Since that snowball fight, at least. Probably before then."

I frowned. I had all but forgotten about that day and I couldn't quite attach any sort of significance to it. "Really? Why that day?"

"You were an excellent opponent."

I looked up at him, slightly surprised. "I remember shoving a handful of snow down the back of your sweater at one point. I hardly think that's my most attractive quality."

"You obviously don't understand the allure of a woman well-versed in the tactics of snow warfare."

"Clearly."

"You were especially pretty that day," he mused.

I looked back at my plate, feeling a flush creeping back into my cheeks. "I was red-faced and sweaty and mostly covered in snow."

"Again: women and snow warfare. It's a beautiful thing."

"I'll take your word for it." I took a sip of my butterbeer before continuing. "But that's not what I wanted to ask you. If…if you knew for that long…why did you wait until five minutes before you left school?" I looked up and found that he was the one staring at his plate. "We were alone enough, certainly."

"Would you be angry if I said 'it's complicated'?"

"That depends on whether or not you're mocking me."

"Not mocking you, not now anyway." He took a deep breath. "Fred and I had talked about leaving before. Casually, mind. But the actual departure was rather spontaneous. One moment I was wondering if I'd be able to make it to the end of term or if Umbridge would get me first and the next thing I know, we're setting up the swamp and making concrete plans to get our brooms and leave the school."

He paused and looked at me. "There were several times before all that where I actually intended to come straight out and tell you, but I'd lose my nerve at the last minute. And then you were coming down the third floor corridor and I just acted on impulse. At the time, it seemed like an excellent idea—I thought if you didn't fancy me, then we'd have a month or so to forget about it. I didn't bank on you being confused or Umbridge confiscating our post. That…complicated things unnecessarily, probably rather unfairly for you. And for that I apologize."

It took a moment for all that to sink in. I nodded.

"Well, I reckon the circus I put you through probably makes up for any shortsightedness on your part."

He grinned. "We make quite a pair, yeah?"

"Yeah." I set my empty plate on the coffee table and picked up my butterbeer. George was still working on his own pie, having spent the last several minutes talking. "That was excellent. Send my compliments to your mother."

"What would you say if I told you I made it?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

He grinned at me and scraped the remaining bits of pie of his plate. "Thought I'd give it a go and see if I could win your admiration."

"Did you miss the part where I ran down Diagon Alley in the rain to get to your flat? I would say that's a sign of admiration, certainly."

"Yes, but you haven't let me kiss you yet, have you? I thought if I took credit for the shepherd's pie that would make that a more likely eventuality."

A flush crept up into my cheeks. I took a casual sip of my butterbeer. "You can't say I haven't let you when you haven't tried. Besides, you're not supposed to on the first date."

"Says who?" He'd set his plate down and turned to face me, arm casually flung over the back of the couch so that his fingers barely grazed my shoulder, mirroring the framed photo.

"You know. People. Everyone's nan. It's just one of those things that society randomly decides without anyone's consent."

"I've two objections to this rule."

"Only two?"

"Well, two main objections."

"And what might they be?"

"Well, number one: I've never really cared for rules. Number two: this isn't our first date."

I raised an eyebrow and shifted so I was facing him, my back resting against the arm of the couch. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. The Yule Ball."

"That wasn't a date. We just went together."

"You were my date."

"Not in the strictest sense of the word."

"But you admit to using that word to describe that evening?"

"You're being impossible."

"There's a good reason for it."

"Really?"

"Yes." He moved over so he was sitting next to me. He took the butterbeer from my hand and set it on the table before moving closer still, one hand sliding up to cup my cheek.

I was semi-aware of the fact that my cheeks were flaming and my heart was drumming in my chest. "Because when I kissed you in the corridor, it only lasted for seventeen seconds." His thumb traced my jaw line. "That was sixty-seven days ago. I've lost count of the number of times I've replayed those seventeen seconds since then." He looked me squarely in the eyes. "So I'm going to kiss you, Sophie Fletcher, and damn the rules."

I was going to say something like, "Well, that's awfully specific," but before I could think much more of it, he closed the gap between us and touched his lips to mine and my train of thought pretty much derailed itself.

It was different than the kiss in the corridor. That was fast and full of meaning that I was unable to decipher until much later. This was much slower, more deliberate. It wasn't exactly tentative, but I suppose there was a certain curiosity, like trying to navigate an unfamiliar room in the dark. My hands tentatively went to his shoulders and then the back of his neck, pulling him closer. I could feel him grin against my mouth.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he mumbled, still grinning, against my lips.

"Liar."

"It's just for all your hemming and hawing and 'it's complicateds,' you're surprisingly keen on all this."

"Well…you've presented some compelling evidence."

His smile grew distinctively wider. "Oh, I've got much more of that."

His fingers threaded through my hair and he kissed me again, lips parted and his tongue pressing up against my lower lip. For the first time in a while, I didn't have to think, analyze, or consider: it was straightforward, indisputably, no-question-about-it right. If I were the sort of girl who was prone to romantic language, I would probably go on about puzzle pieces fitting together, souls entwining, and seeing fireworks. However, I'm a bit too practical for that sort of thing—and at the moment, I wasn't exactly investing a lot of my thought process in dreaming up metaphors.

"So how would you rate this date?" asked George sometime later, pulling away from me to grab a drink of butterbeer.

"I'm…well, I'm an idiot," I said, trying to collect my thoughts.

George raised an eyebrow. "Because of your choice in company?"

"No, I just…I can't believe how much time I spent thinking how this was going to be so complicated…we should have done this much sooner."

He grinned. "So are you saying that I was right?"

"I never said that. But I do think there's entirely too much talking right now."

He grinned and pulled me back toward him.

I lost track of time after that. I suppose we both did—otherwise, I imagine that George would have looked at the clock and said something to the effect of "Oh, Fred should be back soon and Lee will probably be with him" and we would have made ourselves look a little more presentable.

Instead, Fred and Lee bounded unannounced into the flat and were greeted by the spectacle of me knocking the makeshift coffee table apart as I attempted to leap from George's lap to the couch, as though we had just been talking and not leading an in-depth exploration of each other's tonsils.

There was a brief moment of silence as Fred and Lee processed the scene they had stumbled into.

Fred looked at me and sighed. "Well, I suppose that means I've wasted a perfectly good love nest."

A/N: And there you have it. A resolution and making out.

As I said, the story isn't finished now. There's more that I have to write—it's just a question of time and such. However, I've had quite a bit of fun re-learning this story and this little world, so you might be hearing from me again sometime soon. As always, comments are appreciated.